


Die Lorelei

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [13]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Q Is Not A Nice Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something about Quinn.</p>
<p>(Or, the one where Q's not what he seems, and perhaps John isn't as obtuse as Sherlock wants to think.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die Lorelei

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt~ I haven't written for BBC Sherlock in...forever? This is my first real run at it. Enjoy!

There was something about Quinn.

Sherlock had read him when they’d first met, a few years ago now—he read everyone. Only child, mild paranoid tendencies that manifested in obsessively checking over his shoulders and positioning himself with his back against walls. Ambidextrous but favoured his left for everything other than fiddling. Glasses, low prescription, mostly for distance, though he never removed them—his eyesight hadn’t changed since he was young. Wealthy parents (deceased) left him a small (read: sizeable) fortune, something he capitalized upon in order to build himself a name in software without sacrificing all of his free time. Vegan, atheist, pragmatist.

Those were the things Sherlock noticed immediately.

(What Sherlock had noticed next had been his eyes, warm but distant, and his lips, which were thin but utterly captivating.)

Because of those things—possibly because of all of it, from the way Quinn smiled (carefully, rarely) to the way he held himself (carefully, straight), to the way he _was_ , always careful, always at arm’s length, always just out of reach—because Quinn was _Quinn_ , Sherlock didn’t notice.

* * *

“Who is he, anyway?”

John, obtuse as always. Why did they have to talk about this _now_? Sherlock had an experiment to conduct, not that he could focus now, and he’d given John a job to occupy his time until he finished. They needed another case, one that wouldn’t garner so much attention. Quinn had just stopped in—briefly, too briefly, _distracting_ —

John had assumed him to be a client, and Quinn had laughed before excusing himself. Sherlock wished he hadn’t come at all.

No. He wished John hadn’t been there. He wanted them to have been alone, without a third party.

“A friend,” Sherlock spat, hoping that would be the end of it, even if he knew it wouldn’t be.

“Never seen him,” John said.

_Of course not_ , Sherlock wanted to reply, vicious—why did he want to be vicious? John had never seen Quinn because Sherlock and John did, contrary to the belief of the news, sometimes keep time apart. John dated, and Sherlock… Well, Sherlock had Quinn.

(Sherlock knew why he wanted to be vicious. Quinn and John didn’t belong in the same galaxy, they were meant to exist apart, and it was selfish and needy and sentimental but—)

“Sherlock?”

“I do, in fact, have a life beyond my cases,” Sherlock said, irritable. “We go out for drinks when you go on your _dates_.”

_Lie_. They went out more often than that, and not always for drinks, but John had no need for that tidbit.

John sighed, clicking the keypad on his laptop. He was meant to be combing the submissions, deciding which case they took up next, not prying into Sherlock’s social life.

( _Into Quinn_ , Sherlock’s mind told him. He quickly shut it up. Quinn had a wing—a, yes, a wing—to himself in his mind, but he needed to stay there for now. It wouldn’t do—those eyes couldn’t come out now, not the smoothness of his skin or how Sherlock sometimes thought he saw the sign, the cue to reach out and—)

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Sherlock’s mind stopped.

“What?”

John looked at him, earnest and—hopeful?

“This Quinn,” John said. “He seems like a nice enough fellow, I just thought—”

“No,” Sherlock said, too quick, _damn_.

“No?”

“No, he’s—”

John waited. The smile that had been forming on his face wilted ever so slightly.

Sherlock sought the best way out of a sticky situation. “Not,” he said. “Quinn’s like me.” John frowned now, his forehead creasing. “Not interested in relationships overmuch,” Sherlock finished. The lie smarted more than the last—too much detail, even John would pick up on—but John just shrugged and looked back to the laptop’s screen.

“Oh,” John said. “I just assumed— Sorry. Good to have a kindred spirit, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, turning away. John wasn’t looking, but Sherlock was quite sure his feelings were written across his face.

* * *

Sherlock and Quinn happened to meet up with each other the very next day at a café across town.

Not happened, really. Quinn asked to meet up. Sherlock was only too glad to agree.

Their table was situated outside, _en plein air_. Hardly Quinn’s usual choice, though Sherlock wasn’t going to press it. Quinn had been talking to someone prior to Sherlock’s arrival—that much was evident; the napkin on the plate had been moved just a few centimeters, and Sherlock smelled the cologne—men’s, rather distinctive. It wasn’t a new one by him; where had he smelled it? It had been a while, now—

“Sherlock,” Quinn said, half-smiling that distant smile of his with those distant eyes. Sherlock had the absurd urge to lean forward, to close the distance between them. He resisted.

“Quinn,” Sherlock said, forcing his voice neutral as he sat down across from his—friend.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” Quinn said smoothly. “So sorry about yesterday. If I’d known—”

“Hardly matters,” Sherlock said shortly. He didn’t want to talk about John here and now. Quinn’s smile widened just a little. Sherlock found himself staring at that mouth.

What came out of it wasn’t precisely what Sherlock was hoping to hear, however.

“I take it you’re looking for a case, then?”

Sherlock hesitated before answering, aware that Quinn watched him carefully, carefully.

“An interesting one, at least,” Sherlock said. “Everyone always thinks they have something new and exciting and they’re all boring, all the same. Half of them just want the publicity.”

Quinn laughed a little at that. “You’re a hard one.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Yes.”

Quinn ducked his head, and when he looked back up, he was licking his lips. Sherlock mirrored the gesture—subconsciously, but then consciously, and oh, _oh_ …

“I might have something _interesting_ ,” Quinn said. “Your eyes only.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Sherlock said, giving in and leaning across the table.

* * *

(The case, as it turned out, involved just the right amount of brainpower— _minimal, instinctual_ —and clothes— _none_ . Sherlock had done many, many drugs, but nothing in recent memory could match the high he felt when Quinn disappeared between his legs and sucked just so, or when Quinn rode him, back arched, mouth open and soundlessly screaming as Sherlock gripped his hips just this side of too hard.)

* * *

Two days later: a triple heist—Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, and the Crown Jewels. Police found one James Moriarty on the throne, brazen as ever, the crown upon his head.

“No rush,” he drawled.

(He’d won, but no one knew that just yet.)

* * *

_Good luck_ , Quinn texted Sherlock before the trial.

While on the stand, Sherlock thought he smelled something—cologne. Men’s. Distinctive.

_Jim, from IT._

_Moriarty._

The villain in question had the audacity to smile as if he’d read Sherlock’s mind, and the trial disintegrated from there.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t go to hear the verdict because he already knew—Moriarty would find a way out. He always did, and that time wouldn’t be any different.

As he predicted, it wasn’t. After John called to confirm it, Sherlock texted Quinn.

_Moriarty’s out. May be after you_.

The lack of a response on Quinn’s end certainly didn’t terrify him. It didn’t make his pulse race or his palms sweat or his mouth run dry. It didn’t.

(It did.)

* * *

After Moriarty left the flat with a manic promise, Sherlock called Quinn once, twice, three times,  _no answer_ , damn it.

When John finally arrived back at the flat— _too late, so late_ —Sherlock threw on his coat.

“What— Where are we going?” John asked.

“To find Quinn.”

“Quinn?”

“Moriarty’s going after him.”

“What—why? Sherlock, Moriarty was just acquitted—”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t make another move.”

* * *

Quinn’s address had been etched into Sherlock’s memory, burned and blazoned in his mind. The two of them had taken a cab there from the café, careful not to touch each other too much, to make it too obvious what it was.

Now, with John, Sherlock knew exactly how to get there, and exactly how to get in—Quinn had given him a key, and it felt heavy in his pocket. Quinn had trusted him.

Quinn’s flat, up on the second storey, was almost exactly how Sherlock remembered it. It was as if Quinn hadn’t been home at all. The bed—Sherlock couldn’t look for too long—was rumpled just the same. The windows were open the same slight crack; the DVDs Quinn meant to return to the children he sometimes babysat who lived downstairs—“The Storyteller”, a series Sherlock had never heard of—were still where Sherlock had seen them before; the old receipts that littered the kitchen table hadn’t been moved; _nothing_ —

Except.

The plants Quinn kept in the window had been watered. His two cats—Anna and Aubergine, such peculiar names for cats—had been fed. They meowed at Sherlock and John, blinking and curious. _Someone_ had been in the flat, but no one had spent considerable time in it.

“Sherlock,” John said, the tightness in his voice characteristic of distress.

Sherlock looked where John gestured.

_LORELEI_ had been written in massive red letters on the mirror in the bathroom.

“Is that,” John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Lipstick,” he said, turning on the light. The offending tube sat in front of the mirror, open and blunted from the writing. Sherlock guessed there wouldn’t be a single fingerprint on it.

“Who’s Lorelei?” John asked.

A knock at the front door, sharp and insistent, prevented Sherlock from answering straightaway.

“Delivery for Quinn Brooks,” a voice said.

Sherlock went to the door and looked out the peephole. Standing on the threshold was a man (40’s, balding, diabetic) with the logo of a local florist in his cap holding a bouquet of flowers.

Sherlock opened the door.

“For me?” Sherlock said, putting on a voice.

The man shrugged. “Looks like you’ve an admirer. All paid up already. Take care,” he said.

Sherlock shut the door, examining the flowers. They were lovely things, gold with little red accents. Had Sherlock not recognized them—had he been anyone else—he might have made the same assumption as the man who’d delivered them, assuming the man wasn’t in on it as well…

“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend,” John said, asinine.

“What?”

“Well, maybe ‘Lorelei’s the girlfriend. There’s flowers, lipstick—”

“It’s not a girlfriend,” Sherlock snapped, “and these flowers aren’t meant to be pretty. Bird’s-foot trefoil.”

“Eh?”

“They’re a symbol of revenge. Moriarty knew I was coming here, he knew…”

“Why would he go after Quinn? Just because you’re friends?” John asked, looking about.

Sherlock didn’t have an easy answer for that.

* * *

“Darling, they didn’t have any ground coffee, so we just got normal.”

Maybe it was because Sherlock knew the dips in Quinn’s spine, the exact depth of the divots in his pelvis, the way his hands looked bunched in sheets—or maybe it was because Sherlock knew that Quinn’s mind was a trap, an endless maze of possibility and understanding that rivaled even his own. Maybe it was his manner of speech, or the way he walked, or how he looked at Sherlock like he was something that mattered. Maybe it was all of the years spent slowly unravelling, learning secrets and spilling in turn.

No matter the reason, Sherlock didn’t expect Quinn to be in Kitty Riley’s home, and he certainly didn’t expect him to be standing with Jim Moriarty.

“Quinn,” Sherlock breathed.

“You said that they wouldn’t find me here,” Moriarty said, voice the kind of loud that comes with fear, pupils dilated, hands shaking. “You said that I’d be safe here, that my brother—”

“You are safe, Richard,” Kitty said, reassuring, eyes fixed on Sherlock. “I’m a witness. He wouldn’t harm either of you in front of witnesses.”

“So he’s your source, then? Moriarty is Richard Brook?” John asked, looking at Moriarty. Sherlock, for his part, couldn’t so much as _see_ Moriarty for the man standing beside him.

_Quinn Brook_. Sherlock’s head felt as if it were spinning.

“Of course he’s Richard Brook,” Kitty said, “there is no Moriarty, never has been.”

Quinn stared right back, eyes distant, stance careful.

“What are you talking about?” John snapped.

“Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty. You can ask his brother, if you like.”

Quinn had the audacity to look terrified to be mentioned. “I put Rich in touch with Sherlock after we started,” he said, licking his lips. He spoke to John, but he didn’t look away from Sherlock. “Well, after we hooked up. I didn’t think it would ever get so far—”

John made as if to come at the two of them. Sherlock couldn’t move to do anything at all.

_Quinn Brook_. That’s who the flowers had gone to, how had he missed it? No. No, no, no…

“Doctor Watson,” Moriarty—Richard Brook—no, _Moriarty_ —said, pulling Quinn—hostage, couldn’t be, _should be_ —up the stairs with him, “I-I know you’re a good man, don’t-don’t-don’t hurt me.”

“No, you’re Moriarty!” John yelled. “He’s Moriarty! We’ve met, remember? You were going to blow me up.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Moriarty babbled.

Quinn took Moriarty’s shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on the way he held him, so carefully. Sherlock had seen those fingers, knew the exact pressure they applied.

“Sherlock paid him off,” Quinn said. “My brother needed the work.”

“I’m an actor,” Moriarty was saying, nearly sobbing. “I was out of work—”

“Sherlock,” John demanded, “you’d better explain because I’m not getting this.”

“I’ll be doing the explaining,” Kitty said, triumphant. “In print. It’s all here. Conclusive proof. You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis.”

“Invented him,” John echoed, disbelieving. Sherlock still couldn’t see anything other than Quinn’s fingers, the smooth curves of his arms, the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Invented all the crimes, actually. And to cap it all, you made up a master villain,” Kitty said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John replied, defending Sherlock where he refused to defend himself. Quinn had resumed staring at Sherlock. _Waiting_ , he was waiting.

“Ask him!” Kitty said. “He’s right here! Just ask him! Tell him, Richard.”

“No, for god’s sake, this man was on trial!” John shouted.

“Yes, and you paid him,” Kitty said. “Paid him to take the rap. Promised you’d rig the jury. Not exactly a West End role, but I’ll bet the money was good. But not so good he didn’t want to sell his story.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Moriarty kept saying. He gripped Quinn’s shoulders, speaking directly to him. “I couldn’t do it anymore, I know we needed the money, but I couldn’t— If they tried to link you to me— It got too big—”

“It’s fine,” Quinn said, reassuring, smooth, compassionate. “We’re going to get it all out there. It’s going to hurt, but it’ll be done. No more games, and then we can go back.”

Sherlock lost track of the conversation. His eyes were fixed on Quinn—so distant, so far away. Now he knew why. _Lies, lies, lies_.

_Lorelei._ Sherlock knew what that meant, now.

_Good luck_.

“I’m on TV, I’m on kids TV,” Moriarty said. “I”m the Storyteller. I’m the Storyteller. It’s on DVD.”

John didn’t let him say much more. He went after Moriarty and got ahold of Quinn.

“Let go of my— Quinn, Quinn!” Moriarty yelled, trying to pull him away.

Sherlock moved for the first time in ages. He lunged at John, throwing him off his—off of Quinn. The pair fled upstairs.

“Don’t let them get away,” John said, “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“They’ll have backup,” Sherlock said, ever logical. He felt hollow.

_The Lorelei_. A rock in the Rhine, the murmuring rock, the rock where a siren, beautiful and treacherous, sings and watches men drown.

“Do you know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can read you,” Kitty spat. “And you _repel_ me.”

Sherlock didn’t give half a damn. He didn’t care that John was trying to rationalize, trying to understand what had happened. He didn’t care about Moriarty—about to destroy his career, his _life_.

Quinn. Quinn had been in on it.

Next to each other, the resemblance was almost uncanny.

_I owe you a fall_. That’s what Moriarty had said. _I will burn the heart out of you_.

He had succeeded.


End file.
